Blurry
by SSSP-shhh
Summary: It was if the glasses had come off and he couldn't see anymore.  Ever since that day.  Elliot/Reo.


**Hey guys! It's M!**

**I've been wanting to write a PH fic for FOREVER, but unfortunately, I don't really read it for the shipping so much as AMAZING crazy plot. But finally, I thought to myself, "Well, if I was going to ship something slash in PH, it'd been Reo/Elliot" and with some encouragement from B, I sat down for an hour and wrote this crazy, bizarre thing. I'll have you know it's one in the morning. So any bizarreness can be entirely blamed on that.**

**Anyhow, enjoy, if you can get past the weird.**

**Disclaimer: PH, not mine. This fic, however, is.**

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><p>Ever since That Day, things had gotten blurry. As if the moment he'd taken the glasses off, all of a sudden, the world didn't quite add up anymore. He wanted to obtain the Will of the Abyss, but for what reason, he wasn't quite sure. Things didn't make sense, until they did. He wasn't all that concerned about it. The Will of the Abyss was Vincent's dream, not his. He didn't have a dream anymore.<p>

As long as he went along with things, Vincent didn't care about what he did or didn't do. It was all about the end goal, erasing an entire existence from memory. While he wasn't sure how it would serve him, it was best to let Vincent make the plans and just follow them, for now. He was too confused to do any actual thinking.

Some days he thought the little white haired girl felt sorry for him. She refused to look at him, and walked around with her head tucked tight against her chest. Once he caught her looking, but she'd jerked away with an expression of deepening pity. As if there was something not quite right about him, something broken beyond fixing.

And perhaps there was something irreparable about him. Ever since Elliot had gone away, it seemed wrong to live in the day time. Not when there was so much living to do at night.

It was raining, the first night Elliot came. It soaked his white shirt to the skin and made him shudder from the chill. At first, he'd asked questions of the specter, the hows and whats and whys, seeking knowledge, but Elliot hadn't said a word. Instead, soaked white gloves had pushed him back against the bed, as he'd always dreamed them would, and blue tinted lips had devoured his mouth. Yet, no matter how much he tried, the expression on Elliot's face did not change from its peaceful countenance. Even as their bodies seized up as one and writhed with the intensity of orgasm.

The next morning, after Elliot had left, he'd scoured the sheets for evidence of his presence. The only thing left behind was the sticky stain of white cum. Desperate, he'd pressed it to his face, trying to identify through sheer smell whether it was Elliot's or his own.

He'd been worried that it was a one time occurrence, a delightful hallucination in a sea of misery, but Elliot came again. Every night, like clockwork, Elliot arrived at his window, in varying fabrics and states. His favorite time was when Eliot came wearing nothing but the tight cotton pants he slept in, with his hair ruffled from tossing against pillows. He used to imagine that Elliot would seek him out in the night for relief from his nightmares, and it was finally coming true. Elliot needed him now. After all, he was the only one who could see.

Sometimes, he wondered why that was. Had the strange golden color of his eyes affected his vision, so that only he could see that Elliot wasn't gone, still here, lingering behind. Lingering for him. Because they loved each other. Hadn't they told each other that?

He began to live for nights. Live for the moments when Elliot had discarded of all his clothes and was easing himself in, eyes content and blissful. Sometimes, Elliot's serenity even seemed contagious, as if he could only catch it if he clung close enough.

But still, there was an impregnable barrier. They couldn't exchange any speech. He asked Elliot why repeatedly; why all of a sudden he refused to speak. But Elliot had just smiled sadly and kissed him, kissed him until he was shaking from the effort of not breathing. It was as if there was something Elliot had to tell him, but couldn't quite. Something that would reveal the secrets of the new language he held so close and dear.

Once, he met Elliot with cuts on his wrists from his sword fighting lessons with Vincent. Elliot had caught sight of them and pulled him closer, pressing his lips against every cut on the body beneath him, gleeful smile appearing for the first time since the day the world became blurry. He had stroked Elliot's dimples and promised to do anything to make his smile appear again.

He began cutting himself, small slashes left in hidden places. The white haired girl refused to even be in the same room with him at that point, but he didn't care. It was all for Elliot, all for love. And Elliot did so love those bloody scabs, and reddened lines. The sex was best then too, for there was genuine happiness on the faces of both of the boys as they rocked and nuzzled against each other.

One day, he brought in a knife to show Elliot. They'd both watched as he sliced open his own skin and then Elliot had been covering him, tearing at him, ripping off clothes in an anxiousness to be inside him. He'd howled to the heavens in the glory of having Elliot, _Elliot_, needing him so badly.

After a few months, Elliot seemed to get tired of watching him slit himself open so minimally. Phantom hands pressed down on the knife and they both pressed deeper. Harder. On the day he nearly bleed out, Elliot showed him the fastest, hardest, most meaningful sex they'd ever shared.

The night after, he sat down with the knife and waited. Elliot showed up on time, quarter to one, dressed entirely in stark blacks and whites. "What do you want?" he'd implored the specter, waving his arms around like the maniac he surely was at this point. "What do you need?"

For the first time, Elliot blinked in comprehension. His hand lifted to cover the knife, pressing it down to bite into the skin below it. "You," he mouthed, leaning in so that his honey breath flooded the air.

As the knife hit bone and still dug even deeper, Reo Baskerville knew he'd never been so happy in his life.

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><p><strong>Because the world needs more suicidal Reo.<strong>

**Send some love my way please (in the form of reviews, of course!) and thanks to my beta B for not just saying, "M, you're fucked up." You're a real sweetheart.**

**Thanks for reading! And review please!**


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